The water slips,
The red-bili'd moorhen dips.
Sweet kisses on red lips;
Alas! the red rust grips, 120
And the blood-red dagger rips,
Yet, 0 knight, come to me!
Are not my blue eyes sweet ?
The west wind from the wheat
Blows cold across my feet;
Is it not time to meet
Gold wings across the sea ?

White swans on the green moat,
Small feathers left afloat
By the blue-painted boat; 130
Swift running of the stoat;
Sweet gurgling note by note
Of sweet music.